


The Squad Car

by Nikoshinigami



Series: Trapped [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 09:13:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikoshinigami/pseuds/Nikoshinigami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock are handcuffed in the back of a squad car and discuss gender.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Squad Car

The handcuffs snapped with finality across John's wrist as he frowned over the top of the squad car, shoulder to shoulder with Sherlock Holmes in an all too familiar setting. "Well, this brings back memories," he said, flexing his hand in irritation as the cold metal knocked against the bone of his wrist.

The police women helping to usher them into the back raised a fine brow at his remark though she said nothing and kept her painted lips thin and shut. She really didn't' have to say anything; John knew the look well.

"I don't mean as in--not like--I mean, we're not--" 

The door closed, his attempts at clarification falling on deaf ears as he sighed sharply and leaned back in the seat. Beside him Sherlock was chuckling, not even attempting to hide his amusement though their situation did little to promote anything above bored reproach.

"Yeah, alright. It's not actually that funny," John said, looking out the car window for a bit more space as there was certainly none to be found in the back seat. The gurney being loaded into the ambulance carried a black body bag past the innocent eyes of onlookers. The night was positively lit by the spinning lights of the emergency vehicles that had swarmed to the London address.

Sherlock continued to smirk, the evidence of which reflected in the rear-view mirror. "It is a bit."

"It's old, that's what it is. You'd think by now-"

"People see what they want to see," Sherlock said. It wasn't really news which meant, coming from Sherlock, it was intended with insult. It wasn't worth the argument on how John already knew that but was still entitled to irritation over the fact. At best all he could hope for would be compromised disagreement. The night was going to be a very long one still, even with the case solved and the murderer, well, murdered. Self defense. It would be, anyway, as soon as Sherlock explained things. Sherlock looked quite content to be manhandled and held in suspicion until such a time, though. Years of experience, likely. Someone by now should have learned better but John wasn't entirely sure on which side. 

Sherlock tapped the fingers of his entrapped hand against the seat in a pattern random enough to be a song. He looked at John then back out the front window through the safety divider. "Surprised you're not more flattered."

"That people think we're gay?" John asked, looking back at Sherlock briefly.

"You could do worse than the world's only consulting detective."

John shook his head, muttering mostly to himself as he let his forehead rest on the window. "They could trying imagining me with someone in a bra is all I'm saying," and for a moment the back seat grew quiet. 

But only for a moment.

"What if she was so flat chested she didn't need one?"

John scrunched his face in confusion, turning in his seat to make sure Sherlock did not miss a single wrinkle which joined in the expression. "Who now?"

"The fictitious woman you'd rather people thought you were dating. What if she was completely flat chested. Not interested?"

That didn't exactly clear things up for John. He shrugged his shoulders, returning to his observation of the men and women still milling about outside. "What, like hypothetically? Honestly, chest size doesn't matter. I've had my hands around a fair assortment. They've all got their advantages." Not of late, perhaps, thanks to _some_ people but he'd a reasonably thick black book from the past. He'd enjoyed a titty fuck from C to double D but he'd once made an A cup orgasm from nipple play alone. A stroke to his ego was as sexually gratifying as a stroke to his cock in intimate arenas. It wasn't as though the human body was lacking in places you could squeeze a cock into but making a woman call out to god in a euphoric spasm without having even been introduced to her private areas yet made a man feel as though he possessed magical powers.

"So breasts optional," Sherlock summized. 

John shook his head. "Not _optional_ just... well, yeah, whatever. No size requirement. You knew what I meant about the bra thing. A woman in general."

Sherlock shrugged, his fingers continuing to tap to the curious rhythm against the upholstery. "And if she had suffered some form of genital mutilation which inhibited recreational use of her vagina?"

John nearly bit his tongue. " _Jesus_ , Sherlock." He tried to bring both hands to rub his face but found only the one available. He drew it up over his mouth, slowly pulling against the skin of his jaw as his brain tried to process the exact mental track his friend seemed to be going along. "Do I even want to know where this is going?"

"Simple question."

"Most simple questions, hypothetical or not, do not include _genital mutilation_ ," John said, perhaps a bit too loudly given the over-the-shoulder glance an officer standing outside the squad car gave them. He rather hoped Sherlock noticed. _That_ was the proper response to macabre lines of inquiry involving any accidents or injuries to the pelvic region.

If he noticed, he was unbothered. "In other words you'd be put off."

"I didn't--" John swallowed a groan of irritation. "Look. It'd be disappointing but not a deal breaker. Most of my standards are a little less shallow than that. Personality. Sense of humor. The stuff that actually matters."

"And if she had an enlarged clitoris?"

He was going to hit him. He was going to hit him and no one would blame him. "All the better to pleasure her with," he all but shouted, throwing up both hands--nevermind it brought Sherlock's with it--in complete disavowment of their entire conversation.

Sherlock nodded, face taut with serious contemplation. "So essentially you'd be alright having sex with a man if he did not challenge your own self-asserted metrics of masculinity."

John felt his mouth hang open, halfway to a retort and somehow lost therein as his brain screeched to a halt.

Sherlock set his back against his seat, left foot lost in the attempt to cross over his knee and propped against the back of the driver's headrest instead with a small, victorious smile on his face. "Personality. Sense of humor. As I said, you could do worse than the world's only consulting detective."

Surely there was more that differentiated men and women than their bits and bobs and ins and outs but John was rather sure arguing such a point would only make him sound like a bigger arsehole. "You are a prat," he said, biting his bottom lip as he looked back out the side window and far away from Sherlock. It was fact, and not a point contrary to Sherlock's own remark. 

The back seat of a squad car was a terrible place to have an existential crisis.


End file.
